


constantly, consistantly, continually, you.

by fandom_writings



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, High School, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, mentioned amis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28932168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_writings/pseuds/fandom_writings
Summary: “I’ve somehow managed never to read Romeo and Juliet. My trajectory has really only taken me through the histories with any degree of depth. The only comedy I’ve read is Twelfth Night.” Combeferre puts the pen to the top of the lunch table and starts idly writing imaginary words on the tabletop."You've never-" Courfeyrac marvels. "Alright, do you want to watch the Leonardo DiCaprio version, or the old one where the girl looks like she's 12? You're coming over after school today, and I'm educating you on the second best Shakespeare play." he pauses for a moment. "If you're okay with that, that is,"The whole building could’ve crumbled around the two of them and Combeferre might never have noticed it.“Of course I am. You’re a scintillating person, Courf.” A beat. “I don’t know what the difference between the two is, what would you have me watch?”orCourfeyrac finds out that Combeferre's never read Romeo and Juliet, and he steals him for a movie night. A bit more happens than was expected.[Merlin and I roleplayed this and I really liked it, so I'm just making sure it's all in the right tense! So if it's a little choppy and back and forth, that's why.]
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables)
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

Combeferre never thinks of himself as a fast walker. He’s tall for his age, so his strides are longer, but it’s not like he runs every where. He doesn’t even power walk. But consistently, he’s the first one of his friends at lunch. And consistently, there’s always a spike of terror inside of him that tells him — screams at him that all of his friends are planning are planning to abandon him. He pulls out his book — The Secret History. A deep breath. In through the the nose, out through the mouth. His friends aren’t going to drop everything and start ignoring him. They won’t do that.

Courfeyrac is easily distracted; he can be doing any one thing and immediately forget it when he sees something else. This results in him being late more often than not, but he doesn't like being late for lunch, since it’s the only time he gets to spend with all of his friends during the school day. But he still manages to be later than preferred when he sees a book sitting on the floor in the hallway. He ends up reading it for a few minutes, before snapping out of his daze and taking it to the library. He then realizes what time it is and rans to lunch, bolting and weaving through crowds of his fellow classmates. Despite his stress, he isn't really late at all; his class had gotten out a few minutes early. So if anything, he’s only a minute or two late, but he doesn't realize that until he looks at the clock in the cafeteria, sighing in relief when he sees it hasn't actually been that long. He gets to their usual lunch table and sits with Combeferre, panting slightly as he recovers from his running. "Hey, Ferre," he grins.

Before he realises it Combeferre is smiling. So rarely can he help himself when it comes to Courfeyrac. His hair curls in front of his eyes, and Combeferre tightens his hold on his book, so that he won’t reach up to brush Courf’s hair out of his eyes. Those eyes.

“How was Home Economics?” asks Combeferre, sliding his bookmark in between two pages.

"It was boring," Courf frowns. "I don't have anyone in there to talk to, nobody seems to like me. They tell me I'm too loud," He shifts in his seat uncomfortably before smiling again. "How was your psych class?"

Combeferre hums, frowning. “I’m sorry to hear that, Courf.” 

He wants to reach out across the table and take Courf’s hand. He’s not going to though. It would upset too much. “I don’t think you’re too loud.” He thinks: ‘I could listen to you forever.’

“Psych was... psych. Joly and I are working on a poster about anxiety together. It’s very... banal.”

"Thanks," Courfeyrac smiles gently. He’s glad Combeferre isn’t tired of him, glad he doesn't think he’s too loud. He doesn't know what he’ll do if Ferre ever decides he doesn't want to be his friend anymore. He’s used to knowing that he will never feel the same; Courfeyrac is falling madly in love with his best friend, and though he knows it will never happen, at least he knows that he won't be abandoned for his rowdy personality. "I'm sure the poster looks amazing," He adds. "You'll get an A for sure,"

“I hope so, I need one.” Combeferre picks up a pen and starts spinning it between his fingers. 

“The week I spent focusing solely on four dimensional shapes is hitting me now.” He thinks ruefully of tesseracts and kline bottles.

"You're so talented," Courfeyrac encourages. "That week was a good week, and you'll definitely get the A," He doesn't like seeing Combeferre so fidgety and disappointed, but he doesn't know what he can do without giving his feelings away more than he already has. He’s honestly surprised that Ferre still wants to be his friend, that he still hangs around a lot. He isn't good at hiding his feelings, especially not the romantic ones, and it’s shocking that Ferre can know how he feels and not care (he's never admitted any of it out loud to Combeferre, but how obvious is he, if even Enjolras has noticed and brought it up to him before?). Yet that is just another level of confirmation that his pining is useless, a thought that has Courfeyrac frowning for a split second before the encouraging smile is back.

Combeferre stills at the compliment. He can feel the pinpricks of heat over his cheek bones. This close to Courfeyrac, Combeferre can see the texture of the other’s irises. Courfeyrac’s eyes are blue - blue like the sky, blue like tropical ocean - and lines radiate out from his pupils like halos. 

“You seem — you seem like something’s wrong.”

"I'm alright!" Courfeyrac replies immediately. "I'm peachy," he adds with a small grin. Courfeyrac is a little thrown off by Combeferre's concern, and he feels his face heat up as well as he thinks over the fact that Combeferre cares enough to actually  _ make sure he’s okay _ . Granted, it’s something any friend should do, but he can't help the little bit of hope that flares deep inside him as he gazes at his best friend.

Combeferre’s not entirely convinced, but he won’t push it. There’s a joke about peaches he can make, but there’s no sure path to it. 

“You were excited about... about the project you were working on for Drama, right?”

"Yeah," Courf grins excitedly. "We have to perform a scene from any play with our groups, and mine chose Romeo and Juliet. I'm Mercrutio, we're doing the scene with Tybalt and it's really coming together well, we've got swords and everything," he truly loves his theatre class, and though it seems very cliché, Courfeyrac’s in love with Romeo and Juliet. He loves the romance, the fights, and everything about it. Talking about it instantly brightens his mood, and he’s thrilled that Combeferre bothers to ask about his favorite class  _ ever _ .

Courfeyrac smiling is gorgeous. Courfeyrac talking about the things that he loves makes him radiant. This is Courf as Combeferre loves him most.

Loves? Is that true is that how he feels? And before Combeferre has finished considering the question, he knows the answer. Yes.

Yes.

“Of course you like stage fighting.” Combeferre can’t help but smile warmly. “Are you giving Montparnasse hell?”

  
  


"Of course," Courfeyrac laughs. "He's my Tybalt, anyways, I'd be failing if I didn't piss him off even a little bit. And you should try it. Stage fighting. It's incredible! It's loud, but that's a given. It's so fun, until I get stabbed, at least. The fake-dying bit isn't ideal, but it comes with playing the best character in the show,"

“I’ve somehow managed never to read Romeo and Juliet. My trajectory has really only taken me through the histories with any degree of depth. The only comedy I’ve read is Twelfth Night.” Combeferre puts the pen to the top of the lunch table and starts idly writing imaginary words on the tabletop.

"You've never-" Courfeyrac marvels. "Alright, do you want to watch the Leonardo DiCaprio version, or the old one where the girl looks like she's 12? You're coming over after school today, and I'm educating you on the second best Shakespeare play." he pauses for a moment. "If you're okay with that, that is,"

The whole building could’ve crumbled around the two of them and Combeferre might never notice it.

“Of course I am. You’re a scintillating person, Courf.” A beat. “I don’t know what the difference between the two is, what would you have me watch?”

"They're both good," Courfeyrac ponders. "On one hand, you've got Leo and Claire Danes in a modern retelling of a classic. On the other, you've got a bunch of men in tights, a Romeo that looks like he belongs in High School Musical, and a Juliet that looks like a 12 year old. Personally, I prefer the Leo version, because, well, who isn't gay for Leo? But the old version's good too," he frowns. "I don't know which you'd prefer,"

Combeferre wants to grin like a maniac. He settles for merely smiling. “Why don’t you show me both then?” He hopes that he isn’t too forward.

"Then you'll stay for dinner then, too? That's nearly five hours of movie time, I don't want to make you sit through movies that you don't want to watch simply because i like them... You don't have to do this, Ferre," Courfeyrac responds, his facial expression a bit odd. He doesn't want to annoy Combeferre, he doesn't want to ward him away or make him realize how nerdy and undesirable he is. He’s worried, stressed that Combeferre won't like them even if he genuinely does want to watch them, and that he'll think that he’s a freak for liking something like Shakespeare so much. He begins to fidget nervously, willing his brain to stop overthinking everything that was happening.

Combeferre cocks his head. Maybe Courf.... doesn’t actually want to hang out. One more breath. In. Out. ‘Courf wouldn’t have offered if he didn’t want to see you,’ Combeferre has to tell himself. ‘Say the words.’ 

“I want to see you, Courf. I want to do and see the things that you like. Because its you.” And he lets the words hang between them.

"Oh," Courfeyrac responds, his voice quiet. He clears his throat before continuing. "So, uh, that's a yes to dinner then? I can make something, or we can get takeout if you want.. If you want to ride together, we could go to the store and just get snacks and ignore dinner in general too, there's a lot of options,"

Combeferre’s heart is frozen in his chest. ‘Say the words,’ says his heart; ‘take caution,’ says his brain, the part of Combeferre that keeps him safe. The part of him that wants whatever Courf will give him and cannot stand the idea that his own feelings might muddy those waters. Courf’s lips look soft and pinkish on his skin and Combeferre can feel his pulse in his throat. His pen on the table is just drawing little hearts, but hopefully Courf won’t notice. ‘Breathe,’ he reminds himself, because apparently his autonomous nervous system doesn’t function anymore. Breathe.

“Okay," Courf smiles brightly. "I can't make a lot of things though, I'm not that good of a cook... I tend to burn most things," He admits with a small and slightly embarrassed laugh. "But I think I can try to figure something out!" He's nervous, he doesn't want to mess something so important up. Everyone needs to eat, and he wants to make sure Combeferre has something good, something that he'll like. He's worried that he'll burn it, or undercook it, and get Combeferre sick. "Maybe you could help me..?" He suggests shyly. "I'm sure you're better at making sure things don't burn, at least,"

Combeferre wants so terribly to dig his hands into Courf’s hair. Find out if its as soft as he’s been dreaming it is. It catches the light and gleams, and Combeferre wonders if the curls would wind around his fingers if he combed his hands through Courfeyrac’s hair. 

“That sounds wonderful.” Every word Combeferre says feels like trying to touch a soap bubble without popping it.

Courfeyrac smiles at Combeferre, gazing at him for a minute with no other motive besides taking in how beautiful he is. He cleares his throat when he realizes what he's doing, and he looks away for a moment to regain himself. "It's gonna be awesome," He grins widely, pushing his curls out of his face as he starts contemplating what they should make. "The only stuff I can make reliably without burning it... It's just mac and cheese... scrambled eggs, and most of the time, pancakes," he looks embarrassed at his culinary shortcomings, and he is. But he's decided that it's better that Combeferre learns just how bad it is sooner rather than later.

Combeferre leans in a little closer. “Well, not to brag, but... I happen to make the best grilled cheeses on Hawthorne Street.” He grins. “I’ve even been known to poach an egg, believe it or not, Ripley. Meet after the last bell?”

"Then I might have to put you to work doing the cooking for me," Courfeyrac laughs.. "Yeah, at our lockers," he agreed.

The siren cuts through their conversation like a blade, and Combeferre hopes that Courf can’t hear the little gasp that rips itself from his throat. The pen in his hand stutters and runs itself into Courf’s elbow. The irrepressible desire for closeness bubbles in Combeferre’s chest. “We’ll meet then.”

"Yeah," Courfeyrac agrees again, standing up and grabbing his bag. "See you in a couple hours," He salutes playfully, before turning and bolting off to his next class.

Combeferre gazes wistfully after him.


	2. Chapter 2

Courfeyrac's classes can't pass by quickly enough, it seems. To him, it feels like the teacher planned extra boring lesson plans for them, and he spends most of the classes just sitting, tapping his foot against the desk and doodling in his textbooks. Finally, though, the bell rings, and he's never ran out of a classroom so quickly. He runs his hands through his hair nervously as he approaches his and Combeferre's lockers, promptly replacing the nervous expression on his face with a bright, excited one.

Courfeyrac finds Combeferre by their lockers. Combeferre stands with one shoulder leaning on his locker, reading slower than he normally would. Savouring the prose of his book. He’s dressed like a nineties caricature of a nerd, but Combeferre thinks — knows he’s bringing a classic spin to it. He runs a hand through his tawny hair and looks up to be Courfeyrac. He likes the way Courf walks, the way he shifts his body weight from side to side like the rocking of a ship. The rest of the hallway falls away and for a second, Combeferre can just look at this beautiful boy. 

“Hello, Courf,”

"Hi, Ferre," Courfeyrac grins brightly. "Ready for a night of romance and death?" He asks. He realizes a moment later that he should've phrased it differently, as he realizes that, had he not added the death bit, it would've sounded like he was asking Combeferre out in a weird way. He wasn't against the idea, but he also was a bundle of anxiety that couldn't bring himself to say anything of that nature without there being a possibility of him having a panic attack, and Ferre walking him through that would only intensify his feelings. He hopes sincerely and desperately that Combeferre didn't hear the little pause between the two words, as he thinks he might die if he has to explain himself and get rejected on a day that had seemed so promising.

There’s the smallest pause in between ‘romance’ and ‘and’ that makes Combeferre start. His brain extrapolates, imagines, he can’t help it doing that: what if Courfeyrac had ended that at ‘romance’? What if this was a real date, i stead of just the two of them just hanging out as friends? Courf is his best friend, and Combeferre will stay at his side as long as he can, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting more. He can manage with romance and death. He tilts his head towards the door and starts walking.

“Anything interesting happen in class?” he asks. School is a safe topic.

"Besides a kid telling me to shut up when i wasn't even talking for once? No," Courfeyrac shrugs. "What about you? Your classes are more interesting than mine,"

“We’re reading the Lottery in AP Lit. Again. One would think that teachers eventually get bored of reading the same essay about the same short story forty times a year. I suppose I simply don’t have the staying power of a high school educator.” 

Combeferre reaches the door first, and pulls it open for Courf.

"Thanks," Courf smiles, going through first and waiting for Combeferre before continuing. "Teachers... Teachers suck, you know? They treat you like shit and critique you based on something that they've seen years and years of work on... And they expect yours to be better than thousands of other kids' work. It's bullshit, I'm really sorry," he frowns.

Combeferre frowns. “I wouldn’t even go so far as to say that my reading is superior to anyone’s else’s, but I’m having trouble supposing that there are more than say—three or four—main theses per class that reads it.” 

He and Courfeyrac are walking so close together, it would be so simple to reach across the space and intertwine their fingers.

"Yeah," Courfeyrac agrees. He notes the space in between them, tempted to try to hold Combeferre's hand, but he's not ready for the inevitable rejection that would certainly follow it. Combeferre doesn't like him that way, and Courfeyrac knows it. He doesn't think Combeferre would laugh at him if he tries to hold his hand, but the amount of overthinking he always does leaves no room for reason. Why shouldn't he laugh? The hyperactive, anxiety-ridden, Hawaiian- shirt-clad theatre kid, in love with Combeferre, the smartest guy in their school, who always dresses ever so nicely and knows the answers to your questions.. Why should he like him back?

Combeferre leads them over to his car. It’s slate grey and unassuming, but it’s his. “Grocer’s first, or straight to yours?” he asks. 

He wants to open the car door for Courf, wants to do a lot of things, but this particular want bursts and tingles in his hands. Opening the car door would be too overtly romantic — and this is not a date, it’s not. Combeferre doesn’t have to torment himself by reading into matters so deeply.

"If you still want to make the grilled cheese, I've got everything for that at home... But if you want snacks, well, I don't really have any, so we'd need to go to the store. I'll pay, of course," Courfeyrac smiles, opening his own door and sliding in. He loves Combeferre's car. Sure, it's boring, and when he gets his own it's sure to be much more colorful than the dull grey, but he loves it. It's always clean inside, and the smell-oh god, the smell. It smells just like Combeferre, with a bit stronger smell of coffee too. Long story short, he loves the car, but still nowhere near as much as he loves the one who owns it.

Combeferre doesn't think of himself as possessive. It's not usually a constructive emotion, doesn't lend itself to good decision making. But there's something about Courf looks in the passenger side, with his legs stretched out and the back of the seat rolled down, the way that Courf relaxes into his space that coils in his stomach and digs into the back of his brain. A way that makes him want to curl his fingers into Courf's lapels and drag him close until their edges blur together. Breathe. Key in the ignition. Turn. Reverse. Combeferre puts his arm around the back of Courf's seat so that he can see behind the car better. For a second he allows himself the fantasy of being able to put his arm around Courf's shoulders properly, and then he brushes that aside. This is not a date, he reminds himself. 

"Snacks, then."

"Snacks," Courfeyrac echoes, distracted by Combeferre's arm behind him. He watches him slowly with wide eyes, quickly glancing somewhere else, anywhere else, focusing instead on everything outside his window. He breathes deeply, feeling his face heat up. It isn't a date, he reminds himself, it's just a movie night with a quick stop at the store first. He shouldn't be getting worked up over this. It's just a movie night. It's just a night, alone, with his best friend that he's in love with, watching romance movies. One that just has to have Leonardo DiCaprio in it. He normally loves the actor, but as he thinks about it more and more, Leo begins to bother him. Why does Courf insist on thinking, hoping that Combeferre could like him back? He's been hoping for something to happen tonight, no matter what it is, to happen between them. But why should it happen when Combeferre's going to have a much better looking guy to gaze at for two and a half hours, one that he's more likely to love than him. Never mind that he's a celebrity, that just makes him more appealing. Or at least, that's what Courfeyrac's brain says, and he doesn't know what to do, what to say, what to think. So he settles on continuously staring out the passenger side window intently.

The two of them glide over the road, and Combeferre grounds himself by focusing on the leather steering wheel in his hands. Thankfully he can make the drive to the grocers’ almost by muscle memory alone at this point. He stretches his shoulders and rolls his window down so that he can rest his forearm on the door. The sunshine is soft and balmy on his forearm, where his shirtsleeves aren’t rolled up. 

The radio is soft and he can’t help tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He cruises lazily around a roundabout and wishes that he and Courf could stay like this time immemorial.

Courfeyrac can't keep his gaze out the window for too long. There's too much going on in his brain for that, and his attention span has never been known to be good. He finds himself looking over the car multiple times, his eyes always seeming to end up focused on the bit of Combeferre's arm that's showing, and each time he tries to refocus himself on something else, but he can't. As a result of this, he finds himself studying Combeferre's side profile, admiring his beauty from the sidelines. Where he belongs; he doesn't even know why Combeferre is his friend. He's popular and smart, while Courfeyrac is likely one of the most hated people in their school, just because of the lack of a filter he has. Combeferre is perfect. Courfeyrac finds himself focused on Combeferre's lips, how soft they looked, and how naturally pink they were. He doesn't know how it's possible, but in that moment, he swears he falls even more in love with him.

It’s only five minutes to the grocers’ and Combeferre can’t help the spark of disappointment when he has to park. Being in the car with Courf always feels like the holding of a breath before a confession, and he always washes that feeling away when he opens the car door. Opening the door and standing up in the parking lot is like coming up for air.

“Come along, Courf.”

Courfeyrac obeys wordlessly, climbing out of the car and grabbing his wallet from his backpack before following Combeferre out and into the store. The mood's changed, gone from a comfortable silence to an awkward one before Courfeyrac finds a bag of gummy bears and grabs them as he shoots a grin at Combeferre. "Grilled cheese may be 'real food', but gummy candies are the sustenance we all  _ really _ need," he informs him.

“How many cheeses are at yours, just for reference?” 

There’s another life, perhaps one where they’re older, when they come home to each other every evening. When they cook together and Courf needles him into ignoring the dishes so that they can watch a movie and cuddle. Where they have one shared bed and their shoes are all mixed together in the doorway, and Combeferre’s celestial map hangs above the mantle. Combeferre is happy standing at the threshold of that fantasy, looking in at it but not permitted to touch, to experience in full. He takes care not to brush Courf’s fingers when he takes the gummies and puts them in the basket.

"There should be about a whole block," Courfeyrac answers. "What else do you want? Soda? Candy? Chips? It's on me, grab whatever your heart desires," He instructs. He watches Combeferre as they walk around the aisles, grabbing stuff every once in a while, deciding that if he can't give him whatever he wants as his boyfriend, he can at leaast buy him whatever he wants food-wise. "We could get ice cream!" Courf adds excitedly.

“I like ice-cream - oh, but first, let me get things for sandwiches.” 

He ducks into one of the refrigerated aisles, Courf had said a block which makes Combeferre think there’s cheddar at his house. He picks up a small tub of cottage cheese (for meltiness), and a small block of harvati (for creaminess). He makes a note to get some nice bread before they leave, for toasting. 

It’s not as though Courfeyrac and him are in jeopardy of kissing, so he picks himself a small bag of liquorice. Indulgences are good for the soul.

Courfeyrac encourages Combeferre to get anything he wants multiple times, ignoring how their little trip is likely going to be more than half of his paycheck for the next two weeks. He'd do anything if it could make Combeferre happy, and this is all he can really do. Besides, it's not like it's a waste of money. He ends up grabbing a few bags of chips and a couple two liters for them to share, before he turns to look at Combeferre. "Ice cream, and then anything else?" He asks.

Courf has this habit of being distractingly charming, and Combeferre keeps wanting to say yes to everything he offers. He doesn’t even like doritos and yet if Courf offered him every corn chip in the store Combeferre would be hard pressed to turn him down.

“I’m sure we’ll be okay,” says Combeferre. “Let’s go, I’m excited to see these movies you like.”

And the surprising thing is that Combeferre doesn’t even have to pretend that he wants something other than that. Even if he didn’t feel like this, like the way the Courf says his name sounds like the finest music, this is still something he’s want. Courf isn’t special just because he’s captured Combeferre’s attention so. Courf’s authenticity radiates from him like a halo, Combeferre still feels like he’s an actor playing himself on the silver screen. 

Courfeyrac is singular and radiant.

"Alright," Courfeyrac smiles, grabbing a couple of tubs of random ice creams before getting ready to pay. "I eat a lot of junk," he said as the realization hit him, and he laughed at the horrendous amounts of sugar and salt in front of them. After a moment, he spoke again. "Thank you for this, 'Ferre, it means a lot." he nearly adds 'more than you'll ever know' to his statement, but he catches himself at the last moment. It sounds too... Sappy? Romantic? He can't pinpoint the word, but it's definitely not platonic, and that's how he knows not to say what he wants to say. If there's even a hint of it being anything other than platonic, Combeferre will leave him and not want to see him any more. Of that he's convinced.

“You enjoy food. I’m not certain that’s a vice to be ashamed of,” says Combeferre. He wants to protest, wants to offer to pay or even to split the cost, but he knows that Courf will fight him on it. Will bristle and insist. The afternoon has them in fine spirits and it would be remiss to upset things for something so inconsequential.

He leads Courf back to the car, putting their shopping next to their backpacks. That familiar zing of domesticity spikes through him. In the driver’s seat, he uses every shred of restraint to not bonk his head against the steering wheel. 

He glances sideways to make sure that Courf’s seatbelt is on before reversing smoothly out of the carpark.

Courfeyrac's grateful. He's so incredibly grateful. Grateful that Combeferre didn't argue with him on who was paying and he was right, it was about half of his paycheck, but he couldn't find it in himself to care). He's grateful that he knows Combeferre, and even more so that Combeferre is his friend. He doesn't deserve such an amazing person in his life. Yet here he is, with his best friend, about to go watch two of the best movies ever made. He feels so happy he could burst, and only one thing could make it better. He glances to his side, watching Combeferre and wishing he could hold his hand on top of the center console, but he knows better. So he sticks with the excitement of the platonic night, pushing how desperately he wants it to be anything but platonic to the back of his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

Combeferre parks on the road outside of Courf’s house. Combeferre turns to look at him, and has to pause at the way the light kisses Courf’s cheekbones. His breath stutters in his mouth. Jesus. He shakes his head, shaking distracting thoughts out with the motion.

He gets out, goes to the back of the car. Picks up his bag, and the groceries too. And then looks at Courf’s bag. He’s already here, he may as well do his — his friend a favour, however slight. He picks up Courf’s backpack and slings in over his free shoulder.

"Hey, are you sure you can handle all that?" Courfeyrac asks worriedly; he doesn't want Combeferre to hurt himself, or end up accidentally pulling a muscle or something because he's stubborn. "I mean, not that you aren't strong, you're very strong," god, Courf just can't find the right words. Everything that comes out of his mouth sounds exactly the opposite of how he wants it to sound, and it's scaring him. "I mean.. I can help you, you know? You don't have to take my bag too, that's already so much," He's finally found words that work decently in the situation, and he's still worried that Combeferre's gonna end up upset, thinking that Courfeyrac doesn't think he can handle a few bags. The thing is, he definitely can. Combeferre may be a nerd, but he's strong, and Courfeyrac admires him for it. His own twiggy frame and stick-like arms aren't the toughest, and he can't always lift the heaviest things, but that's just another thing about Combeferre that he loves. Everything that he lacks, Ferre's good at. Courfeyrac doesn't have good grades; he tries, he really does, but he doesn't have the attention span for his classes, much less his homework. But Combeferre is smart. Courfeyrac isn't strong, but Combeferre is. Long story short, Courfeyrac has a never-ending list of things that he loves about Combeferre, and he wishes he could tell him each and every one.

“It’s no trouble, Courf,” says Combeferre, stepping close for a second to place a comforting hand on Courf’s upper arm.

Courfeyrac's breath stutters wildly for a moment, and for a moment he may actually stop breathing. He stares up at Combeferre, watching the light that comes from behind him like a halo, and feels his jaw go slack for a second before he forces it closed, looking away as he clears his throat slightly. "Yeah, no, of course," He sputters, turning away to go up the stairs to unlock the front door. His arm burns under his Hawaiian shirt, and he can practically feel 'Ferre's gentle hand there still. He nearly trips on the stairs, but he eventually makes it to the door and unlocks it, opening it unceremoniously as he stumbles in. "I've, erm, give me a moment, I've got to do something really quick," he tells Combeferre before rushing to his bedroom. He shoves some mess that's sitting on the floor into his closet before sitting on his bed and telling himself to calm down. Yes, he's in love with Combeferre. But it doesn't need to take over their friendship, he reminds himself. He finally stood up, clearing his throat again, before he leaves his room to check on 'Ferre.

Courfeyrac darts away, and Combeferre cannot help but think that he looks like he’s been burned. Combeferre wants to believe it was nothing to do with him — but he’s not foolish to suspect that it wasn’t. Courf disappears, and at a loss, Combeferre deposits their bags by the door and takes the shopping to the kitchen. The cheese goes in the fridge, and he puts the butter on top of the cheddar block to remind himself to get them out together later. He takes a peak inside the pantry to checks if there are any cloves of garlic in the house. He’s in luck, there are, and that also goes on top of the cheddar-butter pile. 

After a second of standing in the kitchen, wondering what to do now, Combeferre abandons that course of action in favour of collapsing on a sofa. Kline bottles are definitely the superior fourth dimensional shape, he thinks.

Courfeyrac comes back, leaving his room with the dvds in hand. "Sorry, I had to grab the movies," He apologizes. In reality, he's just lucky that he'd been watching them again to study Mercrutio's character more before class, because otherwise, the only other option is to explain to Combeferre that he had to go to his room to panic because he's in love with him, and, well, that's definitely not an option. He feels a bit awkward now though, so he goes to the kitchen and grabs one of the two liters and a glass. "Do you want some?" He asks, before adding, "What's our time-frame-plan?" he mentally is pulling at his hair in frustration. That's not how he should have phrased it. Maybe it made sense, but words just.. They aren't his friends today.

“I’ll have a Sprite, thank you Courf. How about movie, then dinner, and then the other one?” he proposes. Dinner and a movie, he’s having dinner and a movie with Courfeyrac and it’s okay if he dies tomorrow because this is all he could ever want.

Courf putters around the kitchen and Combeferre can’t help tracking his movement. Courfeyrac moves like wave, moves almost like a dancer. A little more broad than Combeferre and a little shorter, more potently athletic. He likes most everything that Courf wears, but those dark blue jeans that cut along his legs perfectly... there’s nothing else that can quiet Combeferre’s mind quite like the sight of his best friend in these jeans.

"That sounds perfect," Courfeyrac agrees. "Which movie first? You can pick," he offers, getting the glass of Sprite for Combeferre along with his of Dr. Pepper, grabbing a few random snacks from the assortment they'd bought. He takes them to the sofa and sits next to Combeferre, putting the snacks on the table and handing 'Ferre his soda with a smile. He sat a little closer than he meant to, and their sides are nearly touching, which is so incredibly nerve wracking that he has to stare at the floor for a moment to regain his ability to process anything. It doesn't help when he realizes that if he looks up at Combeferre, he'd only have to move a little and he'd be kissing him. It doesn't help at all, and he yells at himself mentally as he feels his cheeks heat up a little bit.

Combeferre doesn’t let himself get this close to Courfeyrac very often. It pushes down hard on his reserves of control, makes him want to be reckless and impulsive. But this close to Courfeyrac, and Combeferre can see how his long eyelashes frame his eyes, could count the sporadic freckles across his nose, could reach over and run his thumb over those lips and find out if they really are as soft as Combeferre observes them to be. He leans forward, out of range, to look at the DVDs and he feels like he can breathe again.

Romeo and Juliet or Romeo + Juliet. He knows that Courf loves Leonardo DiCaprio, but he’s not sure he can stand watching Courfeyrac be attracted to someone — so, so, tangibly not Combeferre. Different, more beautiful, more talented, not prone to locking others out of his world when the need to investigate and to learn becomes too powerful.

Breathe. Breathe. He taps Romeo and Juliet, the one where they’re younger.

“Let’s start with this one.”

"Alright," Courfeyrac hums, getting up to put the movie in. He doesn't prefer this version, but he's glad that Combeferre didn't pick Romeo + Juliet. Maybe that meant he didn't like Leonardo DiCaprio. Not in a gay way, at least. He's never been more relieved to watch a 60's movie over a DiCaprio one. When he sits back down, there's more space between him and 'Ferre, and he takes advantage of this to sit criss cross on the cushion. He misses sitting so close to him, but sitting further away makes it easier to breathe.

Combeferre, for his part, tucks his ankles up onto the sofa, between his body and the armrest. It weights him towards the middle of the sofa, the unspoken boundary between him and Courf, but it can’t be helped; this is the way he’s comfortable sitting and he will not compromise on that. The menu music is tinny and if Combeferre focuses on that, on needling at design choices in the film, then maybe he can ignore how easy it would be to tip sideways. He could just relax and let himself rest on Courf’s shoulder, or his lap. And maybe Courf would sling an arm around him or dig his fingertips into Combeferre’s hair.

“This is the one with Kenneth Branagh, right?” he asks, desperate for a safe topic.

"The Olivia Hussey and Leanord Whiting one," Courfeyrac responds. "The Kenneth Branagh one is the 2016 one, this is the 1968 one," He appreciates the easy question, it's a good distraction from how easily he could reach over and run his hands through 'Ferre's hair. He tries to focus on the movie, smiling at the thumb biting scene, but finds himself getting too fidgety to be able to sit there without distracting Combeferre. "I'll be right back," He hums quietly, standing up and going to his room, grabbing a thing of post-its and a pen. He returns a moment later and sits in the same position as before, doodling to keep himself from readjusting himself too many times, or worse, talking and interrupting the movie.

It’s almost strange to watch a teenager in a movie who looks like one, instead of someone in their mid to late twenties. She’s young. Courf sits next to him, doodling on a pad. Combeferre smiles, he likes Courf’s hands. His eyes flicker between the television and Courf’s paper. The film is lit with a subtle yellow glow and it reminds Combeferre of earlier, driving Courf around.

He looks over and smiles when he sees that one of the things that Courf has drawn is a moth. It has feathered antennae and its wings are more oblong so he guesses its a moth.

Courfeyrac, as much as he loves the movie, can't focus to save his life right now. He's got a small stack of sticky notes already, some with moths on them, drawn with Combeferre in mind. Others had little doodles of some of the amis, little versions of Grantaire and Enjolras arguing. He's a good artist. He's nowhere near as good as R, but he's good. It's easy to tell what he's drawing, and he's somewhat proud of his art. He's contemplating maybe offering the pictures of the moths to 'Ferre once he's done, but he's not sure if they're good enough. So he sets to work drawing more, trying to get them to look better, and he names each one after their friends. At this point, he's completely forgotten about the movie, focused on perfecting his drawings. It's nice, having something to do with his hands. It's soothing. Normally the only time he can get that kind of peace is when he's at work, but this is nice.

Combeferre glances across to Courf’s little doodles. He chuckles at the one of Taire and Enjolras bickering. Courf is a good choice for Mercutio, he thinks. He adores Courfeyrac’s passion, how his friend wears his feelings so openly. It doesn’t seem to come nearly as easily to Combeferre. Mercutio is a good foil for Romeo.

It’s right around the point in the movie when Tybalt challenges Romeo to a duel that hooks Combeferre in. He is entranced.

Courfeyrac looks up every few seconds, looking between Combeferre and the TV, trying to gauge whether he likes it or not without making any noise. By the look of concentration on 'Ferre's face, he seems to really like it. Either that, or he's putting on a show for him. But 'Ferre's not that kind of person, and he knows it. Still, the idea stays there, in the back of his mind, frustrating him and scaring him until he has to blurt it out. "Do you like it?" he asks, gulping at how loud his voice accidentally got. Volume control isn't a thing Courf's good at, but he tries. He hopes desperately that 'Ferre likes it, cause he knows that he'll sit through the second one if he knows how much Courf wants him to see it, whether he likes the story or not.

Combeferre startles a bit when he hears Courf’s voice. 

“Yes, I do.” 

Combeferre leans sideways, intending to simply bump Courf. But he stays there. Somehow, there’s not enough momentum to carry him back up to sitting so he stay pressed against Courf’s side with his his head resting on his friend’s shoulder. Pulling away would make it look like Combeferre is pushing Courf away. So he... stays.

Courfeyrac tenses slightly for a moment and he freezes, eyes wide. He quickly finds himself relaxing, the gentle but firm press against his shoulder slightly comforting as he tries to keep from talking and moving around. Part of him wants to just pull 'Ferre down so that his head's resting in his lap, so that he can occupy his hands in his hair, but he doesn't dare. He instead leans his head down on top of 'Ferre's after a moment of hesitation. His face is warm and his curls are in his eyes, but it's worth it. It's so worth it.

Combeferre thinks his heart may stop (of course it won’t crush related cardiac arrest would be so unlikely as to be impossible and anyway—) but if that was the price then it was worth it. Courf rests his head on top of Combeferre, and his heart is twisting itself into little knots. Courf’s curls brush against his forehead and he can smell Courf’s shampoo - coconut and lime. On the television, Juliet is scheming and plotting to fake her death, and Combeferre is in touch enough with popular culture to know how this ends. He shifts a little on Courf’s shoulder, getting more comfortable. Courf’s arm is bunched awkwardly between the two of them but Combeferre doesn’t want to say anything about it, lest he disrupt the moment.

Courfeyrac's arm is squished, and the only way he can think to fix it is to hold Ferre's hand. He wants to, he really does. His fingers feel tingly, and it feels as if the only way to stop it is to take the boy's hand. The only thing stopping him is his thought process, and how it constantly decides to overthink every little thing. He desperately wants to hold Ferre's hand, to be able to just savor the feeling of his hand in his. Instead, he fidgets. His fingers tap the armrest of the sofa, and his knee bounces from time to time. "I'm glad you like it," Courf smiles quietly after a few minutes. He knows it's a late response, but it's the best he can do, and he'll have to settle for that.

Courf smells really nice. He smells really nice. Breathe. Overwhelmingly he smells like boy-musk, but there’s a lightness to it, a sense of safety that pours out with it. Courf’s fingers wiggle a little, and Combeferre wishes he could stay them with his own.

The music swells and Romeo is running to Juliet’s faux grave. Courf is a little jittery under his weight, and Combeferre hopes that’s not a bad sign. 

“I like this.”

"I'm glad," Courf smiles gently. He tries to stop fidgeting, knowing that it's probably why Ferre was reassuring him of his enjoyment, but he can't, so he ends up just putting his hand under his thigh in an attempt to calm his body down. He's sure that Combeferre can hear his heartbeat, hear how fast it is and how anxious he is. He knows that he can't, but the concept is still there, freaking him out till he ends up just trying to give his full attention to the movie to distract himself from his thoughts.

Juliet and Romeo are drying together. Romeo is poisoning himself, and Combeferre’s brain is yelling about how surely Romeo could have checked to see if Juliet was breathing or if her body responded to stimuli. He keeps those thoughts to himself, though. Surely Courf gets bored of him rambling all the time. 

He tries to shift his arm from where it’s pressed up against Courf, but without jolting or shifting his friend’s head. It leads to having their arms folded over each other, with Combeferre ’s fingers resting against Courf’s wrist.

Courfeyrac isn't focused on the movie anymore. How can he be, with Combeferre nearly holding his hand? He twists his wrist slightly, his gaze still on the TV, hoping that Ferre won't notice the way his hand is closer to Ferre's. Well, he's bound to notice, but maybe he'll think it's just one of his things, where he needs to be moving. Either way, Combeferre's fingers are now resting on the palm of his hand, and his heart is pounding wildly.

Combeferre can’t breathe when he feels Courf’s arm rotate between. His fingertips end up on Courf’s palm, on the sensitive skin there. Interesting, he thinks. That’s doesn’t seem like it would be more comfortable... which follows that Courf moved like that because... he wants Combeferre’s fingers on his palm.

It’s an okay hypothesis, testable. Repeatable. His method, as its coming together in his head is acceptable. Experiment.

Without taking his eyes off the movie, he draws little circles with his fingers where they meet Courf’s skin.

Courfeyrac's breath stutters and he tries to hide it by pretending to yawn, but he's not sure he's fooled Ferre at all. His eyes are wide, and he's tensed up a lot as he forces himself to stare at the tv. He isn't even processing what's happening in the movie anymore, not in the slightest. He's petrified and breathing hard, trying to mask it as sadness at the scene that he thinks is playing.

Once the credits start rolling, Combeferre springs up, like he’s been zapped. “Bathroom! Then I’ll be back!” he says, like a maniac. 

Combeferre, completely normally and contained within himself, wanders over to Courf’s bathroom. 

In the bathroom, Combeferre splashes his face with cold water to wake himself up. No. This isn’t what he thinks it is. Courf doesn’t feel the same way. He doesn’t. 

The water is cool and gentle on his skin and it grounds him. 

He moseys back out to Courf. “Want me to start on dinner?”

"Sure, do you want help? I can try, at least," Courfeyrac offers. He's a little worried; Combeferre's never run out on him like that, and he doesn't know how to react, so he just shrugs it off. He follows Combeferre to the kitchen, willing to do anything that he may be asked to do.

Breathe. Combeferre can do this. He can see on Courf’s face that he’s worried, and there’s a pang of upset inside him that chastises him for making Courf worried. His plans are simple: make garlic butter for the sandwiches, assemble the cheeses and herbs and bread, cook them until the cheese is melting, serve, try not to think about how much he wishes this was a date.

“I’m going to make a small amount of garlic butter, can you cut the bread up?”

"Yeah, definitely," Courfeyrac smiles. He's relieved that he wasn't given a job that involved the stove, because Courfeyrac and a stove was a deadly combination, destined to fail. He does his job well, and he gets it done quickly, so he sits on a bar stool and watches Ferre calmly, quiet and still for the first time since they'd gotten home.

One clove of garlic is mashed up and mixed with a couple of tablespoons of butter. Garlic’s not the central character here so it doesn’t need to overpower the cheese. 

He glances at Courf over on the stool and has to repress the urge to smile. He’s wiggling in his chair and it makes Combeferre’s heart melt to observe him. He finishes with the butter, and picks up the slices of bread. Garlic butter on the inside plane of the bread. He cuts cheddar off the big block and havarti off the small, with cottage cheese for meltiness. Butter on the outside plane of the sandwiches for them to toast better.

Courf watches Combeferre's hands. He's always loved Ferre's hands, he doesn't know why, but he has. He's always wondered what it would be like to hold them, and the thought comes back as he watches him make the sandwiches. He desperately wants to know if they're soft and gentle, or if they're calloused and strong, or somewhere in between. He doesn't care what the answer is, really, it's just the thought of being able to hold his hand. That's what he wants, what he needs, what he craves.

“Courf, come watch this, you’ll enjoy this part.” 

He has Courf’s sandwich in the pan and it’s sizzling as it shifts. He readjusts the way he’s holding the pan, making sure its weight is balanced. He doesn’t look over at Courf, because he knows looking at Courf will distract him.

He flips the sandwich deftly.

Courfeyrac watches breathlessly. Combeferre shouldn't be able to do things like this. He at least shouldn't do them around Courf; it's thrilling to watch him do something that comes so naturally to him, especially something that takes so much concentration that Courfeyrac simply doesn't possess. He imagines what it would be like, being with Ferre. He knows how nice it would be, but he can just imagine sitting here like this, watching the beautiful boy make dinner and maybe even teaching him while he works. He can imagine coming into the room when Ferre's cooking, and hugging him from behind. He shouldn't be imagining it, but it's too tempting and he sits there, staring into space and daydreaming for a solid couple of minutes.

The sandwich is golden brown and Combeferre is actually quite proud of himself. He slides it onto a plate, and when he turns out around to Courf, his friend seems a million miles away. Courf’s eyes are unfocused and staring at the window behind Combeferre’s head.

Courf’s eyes are so blue and Combeferre wants to stare at him forever. Wants to be able to drink in the way Courf’s jaw frames his face, the way his curls draw Combeferre’s gaze back to Courf’s eyes. Combeferre’s always, always liked his eyes.

“Here. Tell me what you think,” he says, turning back to the stove to put his own sandwich on to cook.

Courf snaps out of his daydreaming state very suddenly, starting a bit and wobbling a bit on the chair before he steadies himself. "Thanks," he smiles gently, staring at Ferre for a moment before remembering his sandwich. He takes a bite and instantly has to bite back an appreciative groan. It's the best sandwich he's ever had, that's for sure. He wants Combeferre to make him dinner every night if it's gonna taste like this. Only if he's willing to, of course. "Oh my god," he gasps lightly once he's swallowed. "I think this is the best thing I've eaten in the past couple years. Maybe ever,"

Combeferre hand tightens on the handle of the pan. Courf’s moan — he knows that it’s only food, that this is a normal way for people to react to food they enjoy but — Christ. Combeferre wishes that he was making Courf make that sound instead of a stupid sandwich. 

His own ends up a little burned on the edges, but that’s fine. He’s nailed Courf’s, and that what he cares about. 

“So, tell me about how you’re handling Mercutio.” Combeferre needs to distract himself from thinking about things he could do to Courf to make him sound like that.

"It's so fun," Courfeyrac grins. "I've got it all memorized, and they don't care about how fast I talk cause of who he is, and it's so fun," he repeats, taking another bite of his sandwich happily. He continues on. "I accidentally hit Montparnasse in the wrist with the fake sword when we were practicing the duel, and he's got a bruise now. I mean, he did get me back when he actually jabbed me in the ribs during my death scene, but I'm fine, I expected it, and it's just a small bruise, nothing like what I did to him," He's clearly proud of himself, and it's so completely natural for him to address his own pain but completely ignore it at the same time to focus on the bigger picture: he actually managed to hurt Montparnasse. It's an achievement.

Combeferre can’t help but smile with him. How can he not, when Courf’s happiness is so infectious? Montparnasse’s squeal whenever ball, stick, or adjacent sports object is humorous enough at the best of times. Courf deserves every good thing he wants.

“I’m proud of you,” he grins. And it’s true.

Courfeyrac flushes brightly, not expecting the praise, and definitely not expecting it to be so clearly true. "Thanks," he smiles softly before getting excited again. "But when I got him! You should've seen his face! It was amazing, I actually got him, and it hurt him. And then he got mad, but I mean, it's okay cause it worked with the scene! But I got him!"

So badly does Combeferre want to take Courf’s hand in his. 

The sandwiches are taken care of, so he takes the plates and puts them by the sink. He’ll take care of those later, and he’ll try and talk Courf out of wanting to help but he’ll give in because he always does. He can’t say no to Courf. Rarely even wants to.

“So.” He rubs his hands together. “Romeo + Juliet, then?”

"Yeah!" Courf grins. He jumps up quickly and trades out the movies before finally sitting back down on the couch, his pencil and stack of sticky notes on the armrest next to him, just in case. He waits patiently for Combeferre to sit down, excited to watch his favorite version of the classic.


	4. Chapter 4

“So this is what... the nineties?” asks Combeferre, sitting down without looking and — oh dear. He’s very close to Courfeyrac. The same close they were at the end of the last movie, and Combeferre can feel the heat rolling off of Courf. He tries to play this off as intentional though. Maybe Courf won’t notice the pink in his cheeks that he can feel blossoming. Maybe.

"Yeah, '96. Claire Danes, Leonardo DiCaprio, young Paul Rudd," he smiles. They're close again, and the realization knocks the air out of Courf's lungs for a moment. He can't decide if he wants a repeat of earlier; having Combeferre's fingers on his palm was heavenly, but it terrified him at the same time. It was worth the thrill, he thinks. He's not sure. But he does know that he wants Ferre's hand in his.

Combeferre likes the nineties, or more accurately, likes the idea of the nineties. Likes the aesthetic and likes the cinematic design of Romeo + Juliet thus far.   
“I like the cinematics so far,” he comments. ‘Cinematics’ isn’t a real word and he hopes that Courf doesn’t pull him up on that. He can barely think, barely take in anything about the movie with Courf pressed into him like this. He’s hyperaware of everywhere their skin is touching.

"Isn't it pretty?" Courfeyrac hums quietly; he doesn't even know that cinematics isn't a word, so he makes no comment. He twists his arm that's pressed against Ferre a bit, adjusting it so it's more comfortable and so that he can keep himself from trying to hold his best friend's hand.

If Combeferre was a braver man, he would turn to Courf and tell him that he was pretty. As it is, Courf is shifting underneath him pressing his arm against Combeferre’s leg. He must want to rearrange their arms like they were at the end of Romeo and Juliet. He interlocks their elbows and lets his wrist lie on Courf’s knee. He lets his head rest on Courf’s shoulder again. He wishes that their bodies didn’t fit so wonderfully together.

Courfeyrac's eyes hadn't left the screen yet, but when Combeferre links their arms together, lays his head on his shoulder, and puts his wrist on his knee, he can't help but look down. He wants to put his hand on Ferre's. If he thinks nothing of linking their arms together, surely hand holding won't be much different, right? It's different, but not really. He's seen girls walking around malls with their arms linked, and others who were holding hands. They were all clearly platonically done, and Courf's sure that it can't be too different now. He's not sure, actually, not at all, just hopeful. Before he can overthink it any more, or contemplate it in a way that tortures him, he places his hand on top of Combeferre's. Now he's done most of the work, and if Ferre's okay with it, then maybe he'll hold his hand properly. The stress he feels after he does it makes him wonder if it's worth it, but there's no going back now, so Courf simply sits and holds his breath nervously.

Combeferre’s heart rests heavy in his chest. Courf’s hand is on his, and even though the back of Combeferre’s hand isn’t as sensitive as his palm, he can feel how soft Courf’s palm is. Their sides are all together, and Combeferre wants to turn his hand over and hold Courf’s hand properly. He wants - and wants - and wants.  
He turns his head to look at Courf, who is so, so close. His eyelashes are delicate and his eyes are a wild blue, and Combeferre can’t help but grasp Courf’s knee, just a little, just for something to hang on to.   
His lips are very, very pink.

Courfeyrac doesn't think he remembers how to breathe. He tells his lungs to work, to breathe in, breathe out. Ferre doesn't do it, but he feels the grip on his knee and he can feel Ferre's eyes on him. He trusts Ferre to say something if he doesn't want it. He has to, because he knows if he doesn't now, he never will. So he keeps his gaze trained on the tv as he gently lifts up Ferre's hand, flips it over, and puts his hand back, to where it's resting on Ferre's palm. He doesn't know if he should, but it's too late to go back, and so he laces his fingers through Combeferre's, bracing himself for the rejection he's sure is about to happen.

Combeferre’s breath is juddering in his throat, can feel his heartbeat in their interlaced fingers. There’s no sound and no world around them, all that exists is them. The silence weighs down on them and it’s like Combeferre can’t look at anything that he wants to — needs to for long enough. He bites his lip nervously.  
“Courfeyrac,” he whispers. “Look at me?”

Courfeyrac automatically expects the worst, and turns towards him with tears in his eyes. But he turns to look at him. That's what's important. He tries to read Combeferre's expression, but it's one he's never seen before, and it scares him even more. He finds himself not able to breathe again, and has to tell himself to calm down and to breathe; he doesn't know what's going to happen. He thinks he does, but his anxiety tends to come up with a lot of stuff that doesn't happen. So he looks at his best friend, his heart hammering in his chest, tears shining in his eyes, and his breath sporadic.

It wrenches Combeferre’s heart that Courf’s eyes have tears in them. And he hadn’t noticed, had been too caught up in his own feelings to pay attention to the most important person in his life.   
With the hand that’s not holding Courf’s he raises his fingers to Courf’s jaw, traces his fingers down stretches of skin that he longs to place his mouth on. He feels like he’s being reeled into Courf’s space. Their lips are so close. So close.  
They’re sharing the same breaths, but somehow Combeferre can’t bring himself to kiss Courf properly. If he’s wrong, he can still leave gracefully if they never kiss. If they do, the world will fall down around Combeferre’s shoulders and he’s not sure if he can live in a world where his Courfeyrac isn’t his best friend.

Courfeyrac's confused, wondering why Combeferre had him look at him and then proceeded to say nothing. He automatically assumes the worst. Normally, he's a cock-eyed optimist, but in moments like these, when he's royally fucked up, he can't see anything good. He takes Ferre's silence as a quiet rejection, or maybe silence where he's thinking of the right words to reject him properly. A single tear goes down his cheek, and he wrenches his hand out of Ferre's to put it to his face as he turns away, facing forward again, and begins to cry.

‘Shit,’ thinks Combeferre. Shit, shit, shit. His hand feels cold now that he’s not holding Courf’s hand. He slides to his knees and crawls around to be in front of Courf.   
He wraps his arms around Courf’s shoulder. He’s not great at giving hugs, Courf’s brilliant at that.   
“Courf, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He hushes Courfeyrac.

Courf wants to reassure him, to tell him that he shouldn't be the one apologizing. That he wasn't the one who fucked up everything. But when he tries to open his mouth to voice it, he ends up just gasping for air, and that's when it hits him. He's having a full-on panic attack; it's not just a little cry, or even a big one. It's something that he's never had or done around Ferre, and he feels terrible. Joly and Marius are normally the ones who deal with him when he's having a panic attack, and they're so used to it that they know what he needs before he does. He needs space, he decides. He wants Ferre near him, but he needs space. He stumbles up, heading to his room uneasily. "One minute," he gasps out, collapsing to the ground once he manages to shut his door. He sits there, sobbing violently and gasping for air. He thinks of his therapist, what she always says to do during these; she always stresses thinking of a happy place. Thinking of Ferre really won't help right now, so he thinks of his other friends. Of Joly, R, Chetta, Boss, Marius, and the rest, and gradually he manages to calm himself down. He finally has control over his breathing, and he wipes his face with his sleeves as he sniffles for another moment, preparing himself for the inevitable explanation that he's going to have to give.

Combeferre throat is dry and burning with his own tears. He doesn’t know why Courfeyrac’s recoiling — whether he doesn’t return Combeferre’s feelings or something else is happening. He presses pause on the remote. Claire Danes and someone who isn’t Zac Efron are about to encounter each other at the Capulet party.  
He wants to get Courf a glass of water. But there’s not way to get it to him without some kind of mishap. So he leans against a wall at the apex of the corridor that leads to Courfeyrac’s bedroom. He’s not going to listen in, but he can wait.

Courfeyrac finally deems himself okay with seeing Ferre, and opens his door after wiping his eyes one last time. He doesn't trust himself to speak just yet, so he simply holds out his arms, in need of a hug. The explanation can wait another minute. He needs this right now, if Combeferre's willing to give it to him.  
Time seems to slow. Combeferre has never before seen so clearly, how events diverge if he make s a choice. Breathe. His heart shudders and jumps in his chest. Courf is reaching for Combeferre like he wants a hug, but that’s not what Combeferre wants to give him. Breathe. Bahorel would tell him to be bold. Breathe. If he’s wrong he’s already ruined things.  
Combeferre strides towards Courf (quickly so he won’t have the time to rethink this), he takes Courf’s jaw in his hands (yes) and presses their lips together.

Courfeyrac doesn't process what's happening very quickly; it all happens too fast, and he's recovering still from his panic. At first he tenses up, but when he fully realizes what's happening, his hand flies up to rest on one of Combeferre's arms, and he's kissing him back with fervor. He revels in the feeling of Ferre's lips, which are just as soft as he's always imagined. His hands on his face are gentle and reassuring, keeping him grounded.

Courf tastes like cheese. He tastes like cheese and oregano and soda and its the best thing Combeferre has ever tasted. Courf, his best friend, Courf who shines like the sun is kissing him back. He winds an arm around Courf’s waist and pulls him closer, closer. He can’t help the little gasp he makes when Courf just — twists his head and everything is deeper and more personal and his fingers are creeping up Courf’s jaw, around his ear to twist themselves in those curls. God those curls that tease and taunt Combeferre every moment he’s awake.

Courfeyrac gasps lightly when Ferre's hands reach his hair, reaching up and wrapping his arms around Combeferre's neck. He has to stand on his toes, as he's considerably shorter, but he doesn't care one bit. He smiles softly into the kiss, his panic gone and replaced with more love than he knew he possessed for the boy in his arms.

“Courf,” he whispers, in between individual kisses. “Courf,” he whispers, pressing the name of this beautiful boy into Courf’s own lips. Courf’s hair curls around his fingers, soft against his palm. Courf’s waist fits tucks into his arm in something close to kismet.   
Experimentally, he pulls away from Courf, just a little so that he can readjust how their lips slot together and bite down softly on Courf’s bottom lip.

Courfeyrac makes a noise that's a direct echo of the one he made with the sandwich, and he has to pull away for a moment to breathe. He smiles, his face and lips red, breathing heavily. His eyes stay closed for a moment before he's looking up at Combeferre, who has no right looking as beautiful as he does now or being such a good kisser. "I love you," he tells him, leaning in to kiss him again.

Combeferre has never thought the words before — he’s felt the emotion bubbling away inside of him, but even putting it into words had felt like an insurmountable indulgence.   
“I love you too.” The words taste like sugar in his mouth. He rests his head against Courf’s.

"I freaked out over nothing, huh?" Courfeyrac smiles softly. His eyes are still puffy and red from before, but his gaze is happy and full of love. He regrets the panic, but he doesn't. If he hadn't run off like that, he might not get to bask in the glory that is Combeferre's lips. Standing there, he decides that he could kiss Ferre for the rest of his life, and never get tired of it. He's whipped.

Combeferre brushes Courf’s cheek with the backs of his fingers, wiping the tears away. “Not nothing, no.” He presses a kiss to Courf’s forehead. “You mean the world to me, Courfeyrac.” A peck on the end of his nose.  
Combeferre presses the side of his face to Courf’s. He keeps one hand around a waist, and rubs one hand up and down Courf’s spine. “You’re safe here.”

Courfeyrac throws his arms around Ferre's torso, hugging him tightly. He's never felt so safe in someone's arms before, and woah. It's nice. He feels free to just be, with no responsibilities, worries, nothing. He's encased in love and it's amazing, because now he can tell the other about his love freely. And he does, whispering a slightly muffled, "I love you." He's imagined saying it so many times, but it's nothing compared to this.

“I love you,” Combeferre whispers back. “I love you.” He scritches the back of Courf’s neck. “Feels so good to say that.”

"It does, doesn't it?" Courf grins. He pulls away from the hug to kiss Ferre again, soft and sweet. "God, you're perfect. I love you so much,"


End file.
